


Polished

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, shoe fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gentleman’s shoes are the most important aspect of his attire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polished

They have little rituals, things they do that take the place of difficult conversations. It’s not necessary all the time, but occasionally it’s easier to do rather than think, and Fernando achieves a closer union, greater completion, when he doesn’t need to explain or justify his reasons.

He arrives at the hotel on time and asks the concierge for the envelope that’s waiting for him behind the desk. He doesn’t open it until he’s alone in the mirrored and marbled lift. A keycard slides out, and a slip of paper with the room number written in bold, royal blue ink. Martin always uses a fountain pen. The ink is never smudged.

Fernando returns the paper to the envelope, folds both items in two, and puts them in his jacket pocket. He has several of these mementos now. Maybe it’s foolish to keep them, just a collection of room numbers, but he uses them to order his thoughts.

He turns, examines himself in the mirror. His suit is dark grey, a narrow textured pinstripe. His shirt is the pale cream of a dove’s wing. His tie is satin with wide stripes of black and dark blue. He thinks he looks good, but he’s never very sure when he’s dressed up like this.

The lift chimes and the doors roll open. Fernando steps out onto thick carpeting and follows the corridor around. He swipes the card through the lock and enters the room. It’s attractive, corporate, bland, the same as most other hotels in Monaco. He wanders through the empty space, goes to the window, pushes aside the drapes to look out. He’s seen the view too many times before for it to have any impact now.

Fernando checks his watch. Fifty minutes until he has to be at the Amber Fashion Show, watching his fellow drivers preen and pose and mince awkwardly along the catwalk. He goes to the telephone, glances at the number written on the pad beside it, and dials.

The call is picked up immediately.

“It’s me,” Fernando says. “I’m here.”

He hangs up. Sits on the edge of the bed. Stares at the wall. He swallows, a thread of anticipation starting to ravel inside him.

A knock at the door. He jumps up, too eager, and forces himself to turn back and smooth the quilt. He crosses the room, takes a breath, opens the door.

Martin stands there, also dressed to attend the fashion show, his suit simple and black and unfussy. He smiles. “Good evening.”

He’s so precise. It’s never ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello’, it’s always a specific greeting. Fernando likes that. It’s one of many things that make him feel safe.

Fernando gives ground, lets Martin come in and close the door. He stands and waits, fidgets a little, pulls at his tie, at the collar of his shirt. Martin’s gaze rests on him, curious rather than judgemental, and the thread of anticipation pulls tight and knots itself over and over.

“You look very handsome—” Fernando wriggles at the approval in Martin’s voice “but,” and that little word has Fernando worried, “your shoes, Fernando. No. We couldn’t possibly have them looking like that.”

Fernando glances down. His shoes aren’t shined. The leather is dull.

Martin shakes his head. “A gentleman’s shoes are the most important aspect of his attire. You could wear the most ill-fitting, cheap-looking suit, but as long as your shoes are polished, you would still be well dressed.”

Fernando keeps his head down, embarrassed by his lapse. He wants to apologise, but he can’t find the words. He twists his fingers together and stares at the toes of his shoes. Ugly shoes, dirty shoes. They make him look cheap. A hot film of tears smears his vision. He blinks, takes a long breath against the aching tightness across his chest.

Martin comes closer. “Let me help you,” he says, and his voice is kind. He opens the wardrobe door. “Why don’t you take a seat while I find the... Ah, here it is. The shoe-shine kit. This won’t take a moment.”

Head still lowered, Fernando shuffles backward until he reaches the bed. He sits on the very edge, perches there nervously. He bites his lip and tamps down on a conflict of emotion—joy, shame, relief, wonder—as Martin kneels in front of him and opens the cloth bag.

Martin takes out a tin of black polish and clicks open the lid. Fernando leans forward, inhaling, greedy for the smell of it, that odd, thick sweetness with its heady kick. Lifting Fernando’s right foot, Martin places it high up on his thigh. He doesn’t bother looking at the underside of Fernando’s shoe, doesn’t seem to care about the taint of dust it leaves on the fabric of his trousers. Next, Martin shakes out a folded square of white cloth, arranges it over his thumb, then presses down and across the disc of polish.

Waxy black smudges onto the cloth. Martin holds Fernando’s heel with one hand and daubs the polish carefully over the shoe with the other. As soon as he’s done, he sets Fernando’s right foot down and lifts his left foot, rubs polish into that shoe. The leather is dulled even further. Staring down at his shoes, breathing in the acrid-sweet scent of the polish, Fernando can’t imagine how brilliant the gloss will be when Martin has finished. Not when it looks so flat and boring now.

Martin waits a moment, then takes both of Fernando’s feet at the ankles, places them on his thighs. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to notice Fernando’s erratic breathing or trembling knees. He doesn’t make a joke or laugh or give any sign that this isn’t a perfectly normal thing for him to do. He waits for the polish to sink into the leather, then he picks up the soft black-bristled brush and begins to buff the shoes.

The sound tickles Fernando’s senses. He watches, mouth open as if witnessing a miracle, as the shine emerges, the leather coaxed from dullness into light. Martin bends to his task, his concentration absolute. Fernando keeps his feet very still. He feels the rasp of the brush over the leather, imagines it on his skin. He exhales, strung out on delight, and for the first time today he feels whole.

“There you have it.” Martin looks pleased. He sets Fernando’s feet back on the floor and admires the newly shined shoes. Then he returns the items to the bag. He gestures, and Fernando stands up, ready for inspection.

“Yes.” Martin’s voice is warm, his expression tender. He brushes off his trousers, gets to his feet; reaches out and straightens Fernando’s tie, smoothes the line of the lapels. The brush of fingertips against his neck makes Fernando quiver, and he sways forward in response, tilting his head. His lips part. He wants, even though he knows he’ll be denied. He’s not used to this yet, not accustomed to being rebuffed at one level and fulfilled so thoroughly on another. He leans closer, offering himself, yearning for more.

With brisk movements, Martin steps away, collects the bag, and returns it to the wardrobe. He examines Fernando again and smiles. “You’re ready,” he says. “You’re perfect. Shall we?”

Martin offers his arm. Fernando takes it. As soon as they open the door, they’ll be almost strangers.

It’s a long way across the room. Fernando measures every step in his shiny, shiny shoes.


End file.
